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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28641192">Godfather</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/envysparkler/pseuds/envysparkler'>envysparkler</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Mob, Dark Batfamily (DCU), Dark Bruce Wayne, Dark Dick Grayson, Dissociation, Enemy to Caretaker, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Panic Attacks, Protective Bruce Wayne, Protective Dick Grayson, Whump, fear of sexual assault</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:08:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,882</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28641192</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/envysparkler/pseuds/envysparkler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>
    <strong>Family is everything.</strong>
  </em>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson &amp; Jason Todd, Jason Todd &amp; Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>318</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1042</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>All My Bookmarks, Avidreaders Batman WIP faves, Dark!Bruce Fics, Jason Todd Steals the Batmobile Tires, Start Reading</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Tire Thief</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/iselsis/gifts">iselsis</a>.</li>


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25397782">The Sun Will Rise</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dalee/pseuds/Dalee">Dalee</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I told iselsis that I would write her a Jason-steals-the-tires fic if she wrote me a Titans Tower AU, so here we are!</p><p>Also combined it with a mob au I've been meaning to write, because Dalee's 'The Sun Will Rise' gave me a lot of dark, protective Batfamily feels and somebody mentioned panic attacks, which is like 80% of what I love to write.  This story takes a few elements from 'The Sun Will Rise', but ultimately diverges before that story starts, and introduces the rest of the batkids as well.</p><p>This fic is going to be more an anthology of various things I want to explore in this universe - chapters may be chronologically out of order.</p><p>(Let me know if I'm missing any tags, or if you want further clarification on any of them.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>At first glance, Jason thought he was hallucinating.</p><p> </p><p>The car was gleaming and sleek, black and polished, tinted windows and dark rims.  It blended into the shadows, but what little was visible was a jarring contrast to Park Row’s grimy streets.  It looked like the kind of car that belonged in a magazine, or sitting in some garage over in Bristol.  It didn’t look <em>real</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Cars like that weren’t parked—alone and abandoned, as best as he could tell through the tinted windows—in Park Row.  They weren’t left <em>sitting</em> there, like some kind of trick.  It was a golden hunk of cheese in a mousetrap, obvious to anyone with two licks of common sense.</p><p> </p><p>Jason hadn’t survived this long on the streets without learning common sense.  He had also not survived this long without taking some risks where needed.</p><p> </p><p>And if everyone <em>else</em> thought it was a trick, well, that left the prize all to himself.</p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t going to steal the car.  A car that expensive would have trackers on it, and anti-theft devices, and maybe even cameras.  Besides, Jason didn’t know how to hawk a stolen car.</p><p> </p><p>He <em>did</em> know how to offload tires, however, and this car was sporting fancy treads and custom rims.</p><p> </p><p>This was the jackpot he’d been waiting for.  The chance to clear off the rest of his ‘debt’ before the Snakes forced him out on the street corners again.  He said he’d find a better way of earning money, and he intended to deliver.</p><p> </p><p>He got the jack situated under the front left and began working.  The car was parked in a shadowy stretch of alley and the closest streetlight was dead, so he had only the general Gotham haze to see by.  He kept his movements quick and silent, wincing at every stray squeak of metal on metal as he loosened the bolts and tugged the first tire off.</p><p> </p><p>He placed a couple of loose bricks to keep the axle up and carefully rolled the tire out of the alley and into the narrow alcove of the next one, making sure to stick to the shadows and watching for interested eyes.  He hurried back quickly and moved to the front right, casting periodic glances at the mouth of the alley to make sure he wouldn’t be disturbed.  Two tires would be enough to get Frank and the Snakes off his back for a year.</p><p> </p><p>Four tires would be enough to get them off his back for <em>good</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He was halfway through the third tire—rear right—when someone cleared their throat behind him.  He whipped around, tire iron held afloat, to see a man standing at the mouth of the alley.</p><p> </p><p>A man <em>blocking</em> the mouth of the alley, tall and broad, dressed in a dark three-piece suit and sporting a carefully blank expression.  His hands were in his pockets, and Jason watched them carefully.</p><p> </p><p>“What?” Jason said rudely when the man made no further comment, “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?”</p><p> </p><p>“In the middle of what, exactly?” the man asked casually.</p><p> </p><p>Jason stared at him.  “What, are you some kind of cop?” Jason scowled—he didn’t know of any cops that walked around in suits, unless they’d gotten big bucks from Falcone or one of the others recently, and the man’s whole demeanor was…off.</p><p> </p><p>No one wandered around Park Row in clothes like that, not unless they wanted to be mugged, and yet the man looked completely unconcerned.  There was no visible weapon in sight—though the man’s hands still hadn’t come out of his pockets.  Jason supposed that the guy’s stature was slightly intimidating, but that meant nothing to any of the gangs that sniffed around Park Row’s no man’s land.</p><p> </p><p>Other parts of the city were better, more civilized, run under the veneer of professionalism by one of the big Families—Falcone, Riley, Bertinelli, Ibanescu, and Wayne—but Park Row had been left to fend for itself for the past twenty-five years.  Here, it didn’t matter how big you were, only whether you were alone or weaponless.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” the man said, eyes sharp and tone mellow, “I’m not a cop.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then go away and mind your own business,” Jason snapped, shifting closer to the car.  If this stupid, nosy busybody went away, Jason could leave with his four tires and finally get some cash in hand.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe even some dinner.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe even <em>breakfast</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“And leave you to steal the remaining two tires?” the man arched an eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>“Finders keepers,” Jason snarled, tightening his grip on the tire iron.  If the man took three steps closer and Jason lunged out, he’d be able to get a solid hit to the man’s left kneecap.  With another slam to his gut, Jason could escape.  Two tires was still two tires.</p><p> </p><p>The man’s face was in shadow, but he was exuding bemusement.  “Kid,” he said slowly, “Do you know <em>whose</em> car that is?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Jason shrugged, “An idiot’s.”</p><p> </p><p>The man’s posture shifted to something looser.  “That’s Bruce Wayne’s car,” he said mildly.</p><p> </p><p>Jason felt a thrill of fear shiver down his spine.  He’d heard a lot about Wayne.  Rumors.  Stories.  The haunted look in someone’s eyes when they recounted a run-in with his enforcers.  Wayne was ruthless.  Wayne was the reason that none of the big Families touched Park Row—the reason this section of the city had been left to bleed.</p><p> </p><p>If the car really <em>was</em> Wayne’s, Jason needed to sell those tires and distance himself from the transaction entirely—get rid of his warm red hoodie, disappear from the Snakes, maybe head down to the docks.  Luckily, no one looked twice at another street kid in Gotham.</p><p> </p><p>Jason tried to keep his body language casual as he shifted away from the man.  “Like I said,” he snapped, “An idiot’s.”</p><p> </p><p>That won him a startled chuckle as the man shifted forward and into the path of a stray beam of moonlight.  It illuminated dark hair, light eyes, a strong jaw, and an amused expression.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s it to you, anyway?” Jason scowled, edging another step back, “Wayne should’ve known better than to leave his car sitting around Park Row.”</p><p> </p><p>The man’s lips twitched, “He certainly should have.”  Another step forward.</p><p> </p><p>“You seem awfully concerned about it,” Jason shifted back.  Up close, the man looked even bigger than before, and he—he was removing his hand from his pocket, there was something clenched in them—</p><p> </p><p>Jason skittered back another step, tire iron held up like it’d do anything to protect him from a bullet.  But the man wasn’t holding a gun.  He was holding…keys.</p><p> </p><p>Oh <em>shit</em>.</p><p> </p><p>The man pressed the fob, and the car beeped.</p><p> </p><p>“I am,” the man said, still smiling, “It’s my car.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason looked at the man.  And at the car—the tinted windows, custom rims, thick tires, curiously heavy.  At the man again—black hair, blue eyes, expensive-looking suit.</p><p> </p><p>At the car.</p><p> </p><p>And back at Bruce Wayne.</p><p> </p><p>No.  <em>No</em>.  It couldn’t be.  Of all the horrible things that could’ve happened, he hadn’t seriously been caught robbing Wayne’s car by the big man himself.</p><p> </p><p>The man was lying.  The car wasn’t his—no, he had the keys—or the car <em>was</em> his, but it wasn’t Wayne’s.  That—Wayne <em>never</em> came to Park Row, everyone knew that—it couldn’t be.</p><p> </p><p>The man stepped forward again, and Jason instinctively raised the tire iron before aborting the movement halfway.  The tire iron hit the ground with a clatter as Jason backed up a horrified step.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t <em>attack</em> Wayne.  It would be less painful to smash the tire iron into his own face. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe—<em>maybe</em>—he’d be able to get the better of Wayne.  Jason had made a living out of people’s underestimations, and mob boss or not, Wayne was subject to the same prejudices the rest of the city had when they spotted a street kid.</p><p> </p><p>But it didn’t matter.  Because if Jason attacked Bruce Wayne in his own city, he needed to be out of Gotham <em>yesterday</em>.  The last person to attack a Wayne—well.  Jason was standing mere streets away from <em>that</em>, and what little they’d managed to recover of Chill’s body suggested months of torture.</p><p> </p><p>Jason backed up another step as Wayne advanced, and his back hit brick.</p><p> </p><p>The alley was a dead end.</p><p> </p><p><em>Shit</em>.</p><p> </p><p>The car was blocking most of the alleyway, and Wayne was on the car’s right, thoroughly trapping him in.  But if Jason could scramble over the hood and onto the other side, he could maybe reach the street before Wayne.</p><p> </p><p>But he’d have to run <em>fast</em>, and Wayne would be searching for him, and Jason didn’t have the money to disappear or even get a bus ticket out to Bludhaven, and all running would do was ensure that they broke his kneecaps first.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Jason stuttered out, “I—I didn’t know it was your car.”  Because of course excuses worked with mob bosses.  “I—I’ll put the tires back on.”</p><p> </p><p>“That would be very helpful,” Wayne said, still looking enormously amused.  Probably imaging all the different ways they could stretch Jason on a rack.</p><p> </p><p>Wayne backed up enough to let Jason get to the rear tire, the tire iron slippery in his sweaty hands as he crouched, every nerve in his body hyperaware of Wayne looming behind him.  It took him twice the time to tighten the bolts, his breathing echoing harshly in the enclosed brick alley as his heart pounded in his ears.</p><p> </p><p>He tried desperately to think of a way out of this situation, but he kept coming up short.  He stole <em>Bruce Wayne’s</em> tires.  The ideal ending to this situation would be a bullet between the eyes—but Wayne had a <em>thing</em> about guns.</p><p> </p><p>Which meant that this was going to be painful.</p><p> </p><p>He survived twelve years in Gotham—and between his father’s belt, the drugs, and the whoring, it was the fucking <em>tires</em> that got him?</p><p> </p><p>Jason swallowed dryly when the bolt tightened into place.  “And the other two tires?  Where did you put those?” Wayne asked.  He sounded like he was asking the price of bread at a grocery store, mildly interested and casual.</p><p> </p><p>“The next alley,” Jason said, voice small, careful not to brush against Wayne as he straightened.</p><p> </p><p>Wayne followed him over—as though he’d be stupid enough to run, when Wayne had probably already called this in and had enforcers waiting in every shadow—his hands tucked back into his pockets as Jason clutched the tire iron like a security blanket.  He dragged both the tires out of his hiding place, but it was too far to carry both of them, so he started rolling one as fast as he could.</p><p> </p><p>Only to pause, shocked, when he saw Wayne rolling the other one, bent in an awkward crouch but with no trace of annoyance on his face.</p><p> </p><p>Jason had learned early on to interpret body language.  To understand when the difference in a shoulder hunch meant that yelling would translate to punches.  The particular gleam in a john’s eyes that signaled hasty avoidance.  The too-casual demeanor that made him start watching for knives.</p><p> </p><p>Wayne didn’t look like he was angry.  He didn’t look like he was a step away from unleashing violence.  He looked as relaxed as a guy heading for a family picnic, and it prickled at Jason’s spine as dread and panic churned in his stomach.</p><p> </p><p>Anticipation was the worst.  When he didn’t know what was going to happen to him.  When he couldn’t stop his mind from throwing up all the worst-case scenarios.</p><p> </p><p>When they got the tires back to the alley, Wayne paused, a strange expression crossing over his face as he got a closer look at the front of the car.  “Did you seriously prop up a one and a half million dollar car using broken bricks?”</p><p> </p><p>Jason’s movements stuttered on the jack.  <em>What</em>.  What kind of car was worth <em>one and a half million dollars</em>?</p><p> </p><p>The kind of car that mobsters drove.  The kind of car that came with fancy tires and custom rims.  The kind of car that Jason had been <em>stupid</em> enough to go after.</p><p> </p><p>One and a half million dollars.  <em>Fuck.</em>  Jason’s debt with the Snakes was seventeen thousand.  One and a half million dollars was one of those abstract numbers, it wasn’t real, it was too large to comprehend.</p><p> </p><p>He kept his mouth shut, intent on undoing his mistake as fast as possible.  The quicker Wayne got his car back, the less upset he’d be.  Hopefully.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re very good at this,” Wayne hummed as Jason started fixing the last tire in place, “You could give those racecar pit crews a run for their money.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason was sure that if there was an angry mobster looming behind those pit crews, they’d work like their life was depending on it too.</p><p> </p><p>He finally lowered the car, all tires in place—checked and double-checked and triple-checked, because the last thing he needed right now was accusations of sabotage—and stumbled back three steps because Wayne was <em>right</em> next to him, peering down at his tires.</p><p> </p><p>The tire iron and the jack hit the ground again as Wayne turned his attention back to Jason.</p><p> </p><p>The bricks were digging through his thin sweatshirt as Jason tried to remember how to breathe.  “I’m sorry,” Jason repeated, <em>please, fuck, I’m so sorry</em>.  “I—I don’t have any money.”  That was a lie—he had ten dollars secreted away as his emergency stash.  Ten dollars.  Hah.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>One and half million fucking dollars.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>There was no way Jason could pay off that kind of debt, not without stealing from a different mobster.  And there was no way that simple odd jobs would be considered enough of a service.</p><p> </p><p>His legs were trembling and Jason dropped to his knees faster than he liked, biting back a hiss as his knees scraped painfully against the gravel.</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t want to have to do this again.  He really, <em>really</em> didn’t.  And to think, if he’d just shut up and carried on—if he’d never been in this alley and never seen this fucking car—he’d at least have been able to get out one day.</p><p> </p><p>One and half million dollars.  Even if Wayne didn’t ask for all of it, even if it was a <em>quarter</em>, it was still more than Jason could pay back in ten years.  Twenty.  His whole goddamn lifetime.</p><p> </p><p>That was the kind of debt that threw limits off the table.</p><p> </p><p>“What,” Wayne said flatly, no longer smiling, “Are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Jason whispered.  He wet his lips—this would be ten times harder with a dry throat.  “I don’t—I can’t pay you back any other way.”</p><p> </p><p>Wayne’s face was a storm cloud, and Jason couldn’t help but flinch back as Wayne crouched in front of him—he didn’t want to be the target of all that fury, he’d made a mistake, he’d fucked up, he was so, so sorry—</p><p> </p><p>“I do not condone child prostitution,” Wayne said, and his words sounded like thunder.</p><p> </p><p>Jason had heard that, sure, but he’d also seen pictures of Dick Grayson.</p><p> </p><p>“And pay me back for <em>what</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>Jason gestured mutely to the tires.  He stayed on his knees.</p><p> </p><p>Wayne sighed, “Kid—what’s your name?”</p><p> </p><p>“Jason,” he answered immediately.</p><p> </p><p>“Jason,” Wayne repeated, shifting forward—and Jason couldn’t help the surge of panic, because Jason was backed into the corner and Wayne was so much bigger than him and this was going to <em>hurt</em> and he couldn’t believe he’d been this stupid and he just wanted go <em>home</em>, he wanted his mom back, he wanted go back to when his biggest worry was over homework and not whether he’d be able to walk tomorrow.</p><p> </p><p>Jason didn’t realize how far he’d retreated into his own head until he realized someone was calling his name, low and level, over and over. </p><p> </p><p>“Jason.  Jason.  Jason.  Jason—”</p><p> </p><p>Jason lifted his gaze to see that Wayne had retreated a couple of steps back, no longer boxing him in, those stormy blue eyes intent on him.  Wayne’s expression shifted to something gentler when he met Jason’s gaze.  “Hey, kiddo,” he said softly, “You back with me?”</p><p> </p><p>Jason nodded mutely, and managed to suppress the sob before it clawed out of his throat.  He couldn’t do anything for the tears though, they kept slipping down his cheeks no matter how hard he tried to ignore the burn in his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“Where are your parents, kid?” Wayne asked, still in that strange, soft tone.</p><p> </p><p>Jason shook his head, and fresh tears welled up—his mom, sightless and cold, so cold, he could feel the way her skin turned to wax as she left him all alone.</p><p> </p><p>Wayne actually looked sad, which were some top-notch acting skills.  “I’m sorry, Jason,” he said quietly.  He took another, long look at Jason.  “Are you hungry?”</p><p> </p><p>Back to the usual script, then.  Jason nodded, quickly wiping away his tears and trying to clean up his face.  Wayne straightened—the man looked even larger when Jason was on his knees—but instead of going for his belt, held out a hand.</p><p> </p><p>Jason stared at the hand.  Wayne kept the position, his expression neutral, waiting for Jason to move.</p><p> </p><p>Jason hesitantly stretched out his own hand, extremely uncertain, watching Wayne’s face carefully as he inched closer, waiting for his expression to shift to disgust or anger or self-satisfaction.</p><p> </p><p>But Wayne did none of those things, merely gripped Jason’s hand in his own, and tugged him up off the ground.  He even waited until Jason found his balance on shaky legs before he let go and stepped closer to the car.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on,” Wayne said, gesturing to the car, “I’ll get you dinner.”</p><p> </p><p><em>What</em>.  “What?” Jason asked hoarsely.</p><p> </p><p>“Dinner,” Wayne repeated, “My treat.”</p><p> </p><p>This had veered so horribly off script, Jason wasn’t sure which play he’d landed in.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll get you dinner,” Wayne said again, more slowly, “You said you were hungry.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason hadn’t been expecting an offer of <em>actual</em> food.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Why</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“Why not?” Wayne had the audacity to shrug.</p><p> </p><p>“I just stole your tires!” Jason retorted, anxiety pushing uncertainty into frustration—and then he promptly remembered <em>who</em> he was yelling at, and he nearly bit his tongue in an effort to slam his mouth closed.</p><p> </p><p>“You have guts, kid,” Wayne smiled, “Besides, no harm, no foul.  The tires were returned without a scratch.  I hate to see a kid go hungry, though, so—dinner?”</p><p> </p><p>Wayne really <em>was</em> an idiot.  Jason couldn’t believe no one had offed him yet.  All it would take was a child with a knife.</p><p> </p><p>But…it tracked.  Wayne was heavily involved in children’s charities, frequently donated to children’s wings of hospitals, and organized food drives.  Nothing in Park Row, though.  And it fit with his earlier anger towards underage prostitutes, though Jason couldn’t quite reconcile that with the frequent tabloid photos of Dick Grayson—the kid had grown up <em>pretty</em>, no matter what the rumors were about his involvement in the destruction of the Maroni Family.</p><p> </p><p>Jason stared at him, judging the sincerity of his offer.  Unfortunately, as much as he’d like to tell Wayne to take a hike, it didn’t matter.  It wasn’t really an <em>offer</em>.  Either Jason did as he was told, or Wayne would get angry, and even a taste of that rage had been terrifying.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Jason said.  He could cross off ‘have dinner with a mob boss’ off the list of things he never thought he’d do.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Jason had assumed that Wayne was going to buy him a burger.  Not take him back to his own <em>home</em>—Jason nearly had a panic attack when they crossed the bridge out of Gotham, only managing to stave it off by clinging fiercely to the fact that <em>everyone</em> knew that Wayne didn’t tolerate human trafficking in any way, shape, or form.</p><p> </p><p>If Wayne wanted to kill him, he wouldn’t be taking him to Wayne Manor, right?  <em>Right</em>?</p><p> </p><p>The massive gates swung open slowly, and Wayne continued up the long drive as Jason stared out the window, watching the various topiary animals and shadowed grounds in the distance.  Wayne Manor was huge—Bristol was full of manor houses, but Wayne Manor definitely took pride of place on the hill.</p><p> </p><p>Jason got out carefully when the car came to a stop, making sure he didn’t scuff the door, and meekly followed behind Wayne as he walked up to the large, engraved doors.</p><p> </p><p>“Master Bruce,” the door opened to reveal a graying man in a fitted suit, “You are later than I expected.”  He caught sight of Jason, half-hiding behind Wayne, and his severe expression narrowed further, “And I see you’ve brought a guest.”</p><p> </p><p>“This is Jason,” Wayne ushered him forward and Jason swallowed under the older man’s regard.  “I promised to get him dinner.”  There had been no promise involved.  Jason had been listening.  “Jason, this is Alfred.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason managed a <em>‘hello’</em> as the man gave a clearly disdainful look at his ragged hoodie and dirty jeans.  Jason cast a glance down at himself and inwardly grimaced at the grease stains.</p><p> </p><p>“Master Bruce—”</p><p> </p><p>“Our guest is hungry, Alfred,” Wayne said, smiling brightly.  It didn’t sound like a rebuke, it sounded more like a child trying to deflect from a mistake.  Jason immediately revised his opinion of the hierarchy in this household.</p><p> </p><p>“Very well,” the man said, his eyes narrowed, “This way, Mister Jason.  Do you have any allergies?”</p><p> </p><p>“N-no,” Jason mumbled, casting another look up at Wayne to gauge his mood—relief with a hint of guilt.</p><p> </p><p>Jason tried not to glance at his surroundings as he followed Alfred, well aware that there were several people that would pay a pretty penny for an inside look at Wayne Manor.  Jason was not going to think about where that hallway lead, or how many steps it took to reach the stairs, or how many doors they passed on the way to a small dining room.</p><p> </p><p>The dining room was occupied by two teenagers—Jason recognized Dick Grayson from the newspapers, but he didn’t know who the redhead was.  “Bruce,” Grayson said, jumping up when Wayne entered the room, “You’re late!  Alfred was worried.”</p><p> </p><p>“Made a new friend,” Wayne said, gesturing to Jason, “Guys, this is Jason.  Jason, my son, Dick Grayson, and his friend, Barbara Gordon.”</p><p> </p><p>The two teenagers fixed Jason with intent stares.</p><p> </p><p>Jason fought the urge to take a step back.  Dinner, Wayne had said.  Meet the family was not in the fine print.  It was looking more and more likely that Wayne had brought him here to bury him between the rosebushes.</p><p> </p><p>Grayson’s gaze was sharp and predatory, Gordon—wait, was that like <em>Commissioner</em> Gordon?—regarded Jason with a level, calculating stare.</p><p> </p><p>Both of them looked at each other and bent their heads together to whisper something.  Jason pondered the chance of getting out of the house and off the grounds before somebody caught him.</p><p> </p><p>Before he could edge back to the door, however, Alfred returned with food—a full plate for him, pasta and breadsticks and a salad, along with what looked like grape juice, and snacks for the other three.  At Wayne’s nudging, Jason took the seat to his left, opposite Grayson.</p><p> </p><p>“So, Jason,” Grayson asked, “How old are you?”</p><p> </p><p>Jason nibbled on the breadstick and fought the urge to stuff the whole thing in his mouth.  “Twelve,” he said, darting frequent glances at everyone else at the table.  Gordon was frowning.  Wayne looked angry again.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you have another name, Jason?” Gordon asked, and her smile did nothing to hide the bite in her tone.</p><p> </p><p>The next bite of breadstick went down his throat like sludge.  “Jason Todd,” Jason answered.  He was sitting on the edge of the seat, careful not to touch the white tablecloth lest he get grease on it, and everyone was staring at him like he was the main course.</p><p> </p><p>It made the breadstick sit heavily in his stomach.</p><p> </p><p>Jason cast a forlorn glance at the remaining three breadsticks—if they were distracted, Jason could slip the breadsticks off the table and into his shirt to save them for later.  Without the tires, he had nothing to show to Frank, and nothing to ensure he got food.</p><p> </p><p>If Wayne let him go.  What had been a faint hope at the start of their drive was slowly coalescing into growing trepidation.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s your favorite class at school, Jason?” Grayson asked.  Jason could definitely believe the Maroni rumors now, Grayson was eyeing him like he was a frog to be dissected, and his smile did nothing to hide the coldness in his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“English,” Jason answered, as though it hadn’t been two years since he’d last been to school.  The pasta was <em>delicious</em>, and he had to stop himself from using the fork like a shovel.</p><p> </p><p>“English,” Grayson repeated, tilting his head to one side, “Do you like reading or writing more?”</p><p> </p><p>“Dick,” Wayne said chidingly, “Let him eat.”</p><p> </p><p>“I just want to get to know our <em>guest</em> better,” Grayson said innocently, putting a strange emphasis on his words.  Abruptly, the food tasted like ashes in his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>A guest at Wayne Manor could really only mean two things.</p><p> </p><p>At least if he was going to die, he’d had a great last meal.  Jason could only manage about seven more bites of the pasta before he put his fork down, his stomach stuffed to the brink.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s wrong?” Wayne asked, frowning, “Did you not like it?  I can ask Alfred to make something else.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, Mr. Wayne, it was delicious.  Thank you.”  Jason twisted his fingers below the table, fingernails biting into his palms.</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t finish it.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m full.”  Oh, god, he hoped they weren’t going to force him to finish the whole thing.  He would throw up after another couple of bites, and the whole thing would be a complete waste of food.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, if you were Bruce Wayne, wasting food wasn’t a real concern.</p><p> </p><p>Wayne kept frowning.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you for dinner,” Jason said, trying to keep his voice level, “I’m—I’m sorry about your tires.”  He took a deep breath and screwed up his courage, “Can I go now?”</p><p> </p><p>It was going to be a long walk back to Park Row, but Jason just wanted to be out of this house before he said or did something that got him killed.</p><p> </p><p>Grayson snorted.  Gordon smirked.  Alfred gave Wayne a long look before he ushered the two teenagers out.</p><p> </p><p>Jason felt dread pool into his stomach, hot and heavy.  He distantly noted that his fingers were trembling—he was of no use to Wayne, which meant he was only here to serve as an object lesson.  He didn’t know how badly they were going to mutilate him, and he could only pray that they killed him first.</p><p> </p><p>“Jason,” Wayne said slowly.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not letting me go, are you,” Jason whispered.</p><p> </p><p>“Jason,” Wayne repeated.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Jason said, feeling his eyes prickle again, “I’m sorry about your tires, I didn’t mean to, I swear, I didn’t know they were yours, I’ll never do it again, I’m <em>sorry</em>—”</p><p> </p><p>“Jason,” Wayne said sharply, cutting him off, “Calm down.  This has nothing to do with the tires.”</p><p> </p><p>Oh <em>no</em>.  Jason hadn’t even done anything—he’d been so careful not to touch anything in the car, and he didn’t look around the house, and the only thing he’d done was eat dinner—</p><p> </p><p>“Jason, I can’t let you go back to the streets.”</p><p> </p><p>“What,” Jason said hoarsely.  That didn’t make any sense.  What the hell was Wayne playing at?</p><p> </p><p>“You have no one to take care of you,” Wayne said quietly, his gaze falling on Jason’s half-empty bowl, “No one to feed you.  I cannot let you go back to that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Lots of kids don’t have food,” Jason pointed out.  If Wayne ever went to Park Row, he’d know that.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, only one had the audacity to steal my tires,” Wayne smiled.</p><p> </p><p>“You said this wasn’t about the tires.”</p><p> </p><p>Wayne laughed.  “Maybe this is a <em>little</em> bit about the tires,” he said warmly, “Jason, I would like for you to stay with us.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason stared at him.  Stay?  Like, in the house?  In this crazy-big house with servants and a locked gate and god knows how many bodies in the ground?</p><p> </p><p>Wayne was waiting patiently for a response.  Jason felt a chill run down his spine, dousing his confused objections in ice.  This—this wasn’t a choice.  Wayne wasn’t going to let him go.  Jason had taken those stupid fucking tires and that had put him on the man’s radar.  Jason could only hope that Wayne didn’t get bored of him.</p><p> </p><p>Bruce Wayne was very good at subverting people.  He’d won countless enemies to his side.  The only problem was, Wayne took loyalty to the next level.  If he was a Wayne, he was a Wayne for <em>life</em>.  One of the greatest crimes in Wayne’s book was desertion—and no one even knew what the punishment was, because after Wayne came for them, they were never seen again.  Dead or alive.</p><p> </p><p>On one hand, punishment.  On the other, a death so agonizing it was the stuff of nightmares.</p><p> </p><p>In the middle, a narrow path—keep Wayne happy.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Jason said, half-hysterically.</p><p> </p><p>Whatever the man wanted, give it to him.  He wanted Jason to pick among identical guest rooms?  Sure.  He wanted Jason to choose new clothes from an eclectic selection?  Jason took the darkest pair of pants and a red t-shirt.  He wanted Jason to use the bathroom and take a shower with actual hot water and sleep on a bed so soft it felt like a cloud?  Yes, sir, thank you, he would totally fall asleep and not spend the entire night staring at the ceiling and waiting to hear the <em>click</em> of the doorknob turning.</p><p> </p><p>If only he hadn’t spotted that stupid car.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Jason: can I go now?<br/>The Batfamily: *side-eyes Bruce and his penchant for adopting strays*<br/>Bruce: ......no.</p><p>(Up next: Dick Grayson has a new little brother.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Big Brother</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dick Grayson has a new little brother.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Everyone in the comments section: *side-eyes Dick* this isn't going to end well, is it.<br/>Me, blinking innocently: I can't imagine why you would ever think that.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Dick waited.  Politely.  Perhaps not patiently, but no one had ever accused Dick of being patient.  He migrated to study the not-working clock.  Did a somersault over the couch in the corner.  Examined the paintings so closely he could write an essay about the brushstrokes.</p><p> </p><p>When he perched on the windowsill behind Bruce, peering over his shoulder and staring at the long lists of names, numbers and services—no one had gotten much work done, not <em>today</em> of all days—Bruce finally broke the silence.</p><p> </p><p>“Is there something you want, chum?” he asked quietly.  He didn’t turn to look at him, to pin him in place with that intense stare that made Dick feel like an unruly child, so he clearly didn’t want to have this conversation.</p><p> </p><p>Dick smiled.</p><p> </p><p>“I said I wanted a <em>puppy</em>,” Dick said lightly, “A kid is a bit of a stretch.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve told you a hundred times,” Bruce responded, “You can have a pet when Alfred agrees to one.”</p><p> </p><p>Alfred did not have a high opinion of Dick’s ability to care for another living creature.  Dick pointed out that he’d successfully led several teams.  Alfred rejoined that even the youngest of them had been toilet trained and understood basic English.  Dick refused to admit that Alfred might have a point.</p><p> </p><p>“But <em>you</em> don’t need Alfred’s permission?” Dick asked, the teasing tone hiding the razor edges underneath.</p><p> </p><p>“Jason isn’t a pet,” Bruce said, finally turning to give Dick his full attention, “He is a child.  He needs someplace to stay, and I happen to have quite the large home.”</p><p> </p><p>“There are orphanages,” Dick said, keeping his tone light to avoid turning the conversation antagonistic.  Bruce’s mood was…unpredictable around this time of year, and Dick was sick and tired of getting into arguments with his adoptive father.  “Foster homes.  You don’t bring home <em>every</em> kid off the streets.”</p><p> </p><p>There was no cause as important to Bruce as orphaned kids, Dick knew that, but this was the first time he’d brought one back to the Manor.  The boy had been drowning in a hoodie far too large for him, skin darkened by dirt, and he’d stared at the food like it was made of gold.  Like it or not, Dick could see the parallels to the costumed nine-year-old shivering in the rain as he attempted to hunt down the man that had murdered his parents.</p><p> </p><p>Something in Bruce’s eyes softened.  “He made me laugh,” he said simply.</p><p> </p><p>Dick hummed noncommittedly, analyzing Bruce’s expression—the grief that splayed across it only a few hours ago had faded, replaced by a wry fondness.  Dick had expected him to come back gloomy and sad, still trapped in a nightmare twenty-five years old, but Bruce had been <em>smiling</em> when he ushered the kid inside.</p><p> </p><p>“Is there anything else you wanted, chum, or were you just trying to get in your interrogation before Alfred’s lecture?” Bruce asked, raising an eyebrow—like he was actually scared of Alfred’s lecture, Dick had <em>seen</em> the look on Alfred’s face, the only person who was more of a bleeding heart towards orphans than Bruce was Alfred.</p><p> </p><p>Dick was pretty sure that Alfred had taken Jason’s inability to finish his meal as a personal affront, and was probably already preparing a meal plan to correct the malnutrition.</p><p> </p><p>“Are we keeping him?” Dick asked, hopping off the windowsill, “Or is this more like a catch-and-release thing?”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s not a pet, Dick, and Jason’s situation is something I need to discuss with Jason first,” Bruce said, “But, yes, he will be here for the foreseeable future.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fantastic,” Dick said, and left the room before Bruce could register the bitterness in his tone.</p><p> </p><p><em>“He made me laugh.”</em>  Admittedly, it made sense—if you were an up-and-coming crime lord, and you knew that the Dark Prince of Gotham melted at the sight of sunken cheeks, you snatched a street kid, starved them a bit, taught them how to shove a blade between the ribs, and shoved them into Bruce Wayne’s path.</p><p> </p><p>Alfred was certainly not going to talk sense into Bruce, which left it up to Dick.</p><p> </p><p>And Babs, who was sitting in the living room, hands flitting across her computer as she frowned.  “Well?” Dick asked, draping himself across the back of the armchair so he could rest his head on her shoulder, “What did you find?”</p><p> </p><p>“Jason Todd,” Babs hummed, “Father Willis Todd, died in prison a half year ago.  Mother Catherine Todd, died of a drug overdose two years ago.  School records vanish then.  If he was with any of the other Families, then it’s extremely on the down low.”</p><p> </p><p>“Expected,” Dick pointed out, “If they were sending him to infiltrate us.  What drug did she overdose on?”</p><p> </p><p>“Heroin,” Barbara replied, before raising her eyebrows, “You think he’s a spy?”</p><p> </p><p>“I think Bruce saw wide blue eyes and didn’t think anything aside from ‘poor orphan child’.  I think that someone saw the perfect opportunity to capitalize on his well-known weakness.”</p><p> </p><p>“They could do better than a half-starved kid,” Barbara said bluntly, “He <em>is</em> twelve, despite his appearance.  I’d estimate ten to fifteen pounds underweight, severely malnourished—I imagine Alfred’s taking him to Leslie’s tomorrow for a full check-up.”</p><p> </p><p>“It doesn’t matter how malnourished he is if he poisons dinner,” Dick said darkly.</p><p> </p><p>Barbara turned to face him, and they were suddenly nose-to-nose.  “Under Alfred’s nose?” Barbara raised an eyebrow, “Dick, he’s just a <em>kid</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“I was one year older than him when I finished the Maronis.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, and you had Bruce’s resources and <em>my</em> help.  This kid has nothing.”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s a street kid,” Dick said, narrowing his eyes.  He knew the type, he’d seen them all in his very brief stint in that youth detention center.  “He’s not like you or me, he grew up in this.  Like you said—he has nothing, and still he’s managed to survive.  He’s dangerous.”</p><p> </p><p>“Dick Grayson,” Barbara said shrewdly, the edge of a smile playing about her face, “Are you <em>jealous</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>Dick narrowed his eyes.  Her smile grew.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t trust him,” he said finally.</p><p> </p><p>Barbara patted his head in mock sympathy.  “You don’t trust anyone,” she said.</p><p> </p><p>“And that’s worked out very well for us,” Dick retorted, “Someone has to be the suspicious one in this family.”</p><p> </p><p>Barbara sighed.  “Don’t maim him,” she said, closing her laptop and getting up, “I’m not sure I can save you from Bruce and Alfred if you do.”</p><p> </p><p>“And if I’m right?” Dick asked, rolling over so he was staring at her face upside-down.  Her expression twisted, then eased—she, of all people, knew exactly how dangerous a child could be, especially if they were underestimated.</p><p> </p><p>Dick wasn’t Bruce’s right-hand because he was his son—he’d earned his position, fair and square, even if he was only eighteen.</p><p> </p><p>“If you’re right,” Barbara shrugged, “Then don’t drag it out.  Find out who exactly was stupid enough to send a child after us, and we’ll burn their whole organization to the ground.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Admittedly, Jason didn’t <em>seem</em> like a spy.  He was…quiet.  He did what Alfred asked, without complaint, even if it was eating the asparagus on his plate while everyone else got pasta, which instantly made him Alfred’s new favorite person.</p><p> </p><p>Dick expected slightly more vehemence from a twelve-year-old, even a spy, over eating his vegetables.  Or at least for Jason to <em>do</em> something with the subsequent opportunity to help Alfred in the kitchen, but he seemed to just be washing fruits and vegetables and kneading dough under Alfred’s supervision.</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t try to explore the house.  Not during the day, not when they were supposed to be asleep.  Bruce had gotten all the way to the main library on his tour when Jason’s eyes widened like he’d stepped into a vault full of treasure—Bruce had read the obvious and undisguised excitement on Jason’s face, and had left him with the books.</p><p> </p><p>Jason stayed out of the way, was clearly making an effort to learn table manners, and loved reading.  He was as inoffensive as you could get, and if someone had vouched for him, Dick would’ve loved to take him under his wing.</p><p> </p><p>Unfortunately, since no one else in the house wanted to maintain a healthy amount of suspicion, it was Dick’s job to watch him.  Barbara finally dragged him to the gym for a spar because he was, according to her, twitching out of his own skin with paranoia.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on, bird boy,” Babs smiled, “Let go of some of that tension.”</p><p> </p><p>Dick exhaled, shifted back to a ready stance, and waited for her move.</p><p> </p><p>He was leading, three wins to her one, when Babs smiled, something wicked glimmering across her face.  She dodged his punch, and twisted back, avoiding his follow-up kick.  “We have an audience,” she said quietly, still grinning.</p><p> </p><p>Dick spun after her, managing to brush her shoulder before she dodged, and darted a quick glance to the doorway—blue eyes, dark hair, watching them solemnly.</p><p> </p><p>Babs made him pay for the distraction, and she had his arm locked up before he realized her punch was a feint.</p><p> </p><p>“Yield,” Dick said, and Babs let him straighten up, stepping back as they both turned to their observer.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello, Jason,” Babs said, beckoning the kid inside.  Dick barely managed to suppress his groan.  “Did you want to learn how to fight?”</p><p> </p><p>Dick’s sigh turned into a smile halfway through.  Babs <em>did</em> always know how to make him feel better.</p><p> </p><p>“I know how to fight,” the kid said, his gaze flicking from Babs to Dick as he slowly inched inside the room.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you want a friendly spar, then?” Dick asked, grinning.</p><p> </p><p>Jason looked at him, and his nose wrinkled up the tiniest bit.  Dick still caught it, the half-flicker of disgust he’d seen on so many faces—he knew what he looked like, he knew they saw a smile and a pretty face and never bothered looking for the scars.</p><p> </p><p>The underestimation was almost as thrilling as the fear.  <em>Almost</em>.</p><p> </p><p>But they really only underestimated him once.</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” Jason shrugged, elaborately casual.  Babs stepped off the mat—<em>‘no maiming’</em> she mouthed behind the kid’s back, and Dick gave her an exaggerated eye roll.</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, Jason,” Dick shifted back on the balls of his feet, “Whenever you’re ready.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason’s gaze flickered over him—the loose fists, the relaxed posture, the beaming smile—and the wrinkle between his eyebrows tightened.  He moved into a more defensive stance, his eyes narrowing, and waited.</p><p> </p><p>Dick had never claimed to have patience.</p><p> </p><p>He attacked first—he kept his movements slow, testing, ready to defend because Babs would <em>never</em> stop laughing at him if he managed to get beaten by a twelve-year-old, but not attacking in the flurry he would’ve if it had been Babs or Bruce.  Jason seemed to realize this, recognizing that Dick was going easy on him, and his face twisted up in a fierce scowl.</p><p> </p><p>Jason attacked viciously—there were definitely some solid moves in there but, on the whole, it was the kind of attack that was meant to make someone back off.  Aggressive right off the bat, so anyone looked for prey would decide to find an easier target.  It was an attack intended to get in a few good hits and then take off running.</p><p> </p><p>Only this was a spar, so Jason couldn’t run, and Dick wasn’t backing off.</p><p> </p><p>Jason’s movements faltered, and Dick seized the opening, grabbing his wrist, stepping forward to twist his arm behind his back, and sweeping an ankle out to send Jason sprawling to the ground.  Dick pinned him easily, arm twisted up on the edge of painful, and waited for Jason to surrender.</p><p> </p><p>And waited.</p><p> </p><p>Jason was still struggling, still thrashing, his movements getting more and more frantic as he panted—Dick raised his head, caught sight of Babs’ narrowed eyes, and let go of Jason before he managed to dislocate his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“You yield or tap out when you want to end the fight,” Dick said lightly—Jason had rolled away from him the moment he’d gotten up, and pushed to his feet, breathing heavily, his fists trembling.  His gaze was firmly fixed on Dick, his expression carefully blank.  “Or you might run into someone who will absolutely let you break an arm trying to get out of their hold.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason took a deep breath and managed to exhale relatively steadily.  “What’s a tap out?” he asked, narrowed eyes doing little to cover the trembling.</p><p> </p><p>Right.  Street kid.  But if he’d been trained by someone, Dick expected him to understand the rules of a spar.</p><p> </p><p>Unless he hadn’t been trained by someone, had been trained by someone who didn’t give a fuck about the rules of a spar, or was pretending not to know.</p><p> </p><p>“Babs,” Dick turned to his girlfriend, “A demonstration?”</p><p> </p><p>She joined him on the mats as Dick stepped back to give her some space.  She waited, watching him, and Dick attacked with a punch—she grabbed his wrist, twisted it, and brought her other arm down on his elbow.</p><p> </p><p>Dick folded, knees crashing into the mat as she bore down, trapping his arm against her.  He concealed his smile in the curve of her hip—Babs tightened her grip, straining his arm.</p><p> </p><p>Dick raised his free hand so that Jason could see it, and tapped twice on the mat, just loud enough to be audible.  “Tap two times on the ground,” he said, his voice muffled by Babs’ shirt, “Or two times against your opponent.”  He drummed his fingers on Babs’ knee, and she let go, stepping back.  “It signifies that your opponent won the round.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason looked from Babs, offering Dick a hand to pull himself up, and Dick.  There was something in his gaze that Dick couldn’t identify—it wasn’t quite fear, but it was close.  “Is that it?” Jason asked.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Babs said, retreating to the sidelines, “Then you can start another round, if you want, or end the spar.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason kept looking between him and Babs, and Dick finally stepped in front of him to break the stare.  “You want another round, or you had enough for one day?” Dick asked.</p><p> </p><p>As expected, Jason’s face scrunched into a glower.  “I want another round,” he growled.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Every time, Jason tapped out like he wasn’t expecting Dick to let go.  Like it was a trick.  Like Dick was going to laugh and keep him pinned down.</p><p> </p><p>It made something twist in his stomach, but Dick ignored it and kept a careful eye on Jason.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Jason was a decent fighter, for a street kid.  But he didn’t have training, and he’d be obliterated by anyone who did—Dick had to hold himself back in their now-daily spars by pretending that he was fighting a kitten.</p><p> </p><p>A kitten with very sharp claws, but still just a kitten.</p><p> </p><p>Whoever sent him here clearly didn’t hold any illusions about his ability to fight them, but there were a lot of ways to kill someone without a fight.  Dick finally accepted that Jason wouldn’t be able to manage any sleight-of-hand with their food under Alfred’s nose, soft spot or not, but there were plenty of other times that they were vulnerable.</p><p> </p><p>Dick had tried handing Jason Bruce’s tea tray—Bruce showed no subsequent signs of poisoning.</p><p> </p><p>He left Jason alone in a room with Alfred’s collection of knives—he’d gotten a lecture from Alfred for that, but none of the knives were missing.</p><p> </p><p>He’d even suggested a movie night, and chosen the dullest, dreariest movie he could find—Babs deserted them five minutes in, Bruce yawned off halfway through, and even Dick was struggling to keep his eyes open near the end.</p><p> </p><p>He heard the TV click off as the credits started rolling, and kept his breathing steady and slow as quiet-but-not-silent footsteps edged past the couch—Bruce was snoring slightly—and walked past his armchair before heading to the door.</p><p> </p><p>Dick cracked open an eye—Bruce was still asleep, apparently unharmed.  Jason hadn’t even <em>tried</em> anything.</p><p> </p><p>It didn’t make any sense.</p><p> </p><p>If he was a spy, he had to be here for <em>something</em>.  The blueprints to the Manor.  Their schedules.  Their information.  Assassination.</p><p> </p><p>And yet Jason refused to explore the Manor, practically fled anytime anyone started talking about business, and ignored multiple opportunities for assassination.</p><p> </p><p>Dick stared at the door Jason had left through, frowning.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“I haven’t found anything,” Babs said quietly.  They were nominally doing their homework, but Dick had been doodling and Babs had been hacking some three-letter agency or another.</p><p> </p><p>“About?”</p><p> </p><p>“Jason,” Babs said, and Dick straightened.  “I conducted the most thorough background check I could.  Nothing on him.  No ties to the Families.  He’s not mentioned in any of their information either.”</p><p> </p><p>“Except the black hole of the last two years,” Dick pointed out.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s a street kid,” Babs raised a shoulder, “If he was working for someone, they kept it so off-the-books that I can’t find it.”</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t impossible—Babs couldn’t hack a paper trail, after all—but <em>no mention</em> was pretty difficult to do.</p><p> </p><p>Pretty difficult to keep up.</p><p> </p><p>Jason had been here nearly a month, and none of Dick’s myriad tests had tripped him up.  Either he was <em>that</em> good…</p><p> </p><p>Or he was exactly what he seemed.</p><p> </p><p>There was still a niggling itch inside of him, a gnawing thorn in his side—the meek compliance wasn’t his real personality, Dick saw hints of the fire underneath, the fire that had made Bruce bring him home in the first place, but it never quite rose to the surface.</p><p> </p><p>“Dick,” Babs said warningly as his expression changed.</p><p> </p><p>“No maiming,” Dick repeated, smiling up at her, “Don’t worry.”</p><p> </p><p>Fear didn’t tell you a whole lot about a person—fear made them desperate to please.  It wasn’t an effective interrogation tool.  <em>Anger</em>, on the other hand—you could get a lot of truth out of anger.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Dick got his opportunity two days later, when Jason returned from the clinic visit to make sure he was up to date on his vaccinations.</p><p> </p><p>He was pale-faced and shivering, his eyes rimmed in red, and he bolted before Alfred had even finished taking off his coat.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll find him,” Dick volunteered easily, before Alfred’s face could draw all the way into a frown.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, Master Dick,” Alfred sighed, “I’m afraid Jason is not kindly disposed to needles, and he had to get several shots today.”</p><p> </p><p>Dick made a sympathetic sound, and headed after Jason.  He found him in the second place he checked—the library was empty—and Dick leaned against the doorframe and watched Jason attack the punching bag with a frenzy.</p><p> </p><p>He waited for a lull in the attack before speaking up, “You want to hit something that hits back?”</p><p> </p><p>Jason startled, suddenly and violently—he hadn’t realized that Dick was there, and Dick saw his expression flash across fear before hardening into annoyance, expression twitching into a frown he was clearly too strung out to hide.</p><p> </p><p>Oh, yes, this would work very well.</p><p> </p><p>“You want to get your ass kicked, fine by me,” Jason snarled.</p><p> </p><p>Dick couldn’t help the eyebrow—one, Jason hadn’t yet managed to get a solid hit on him, and two, <em>where</em> had this sass <em>been</em> all this time?</p><p> </p><p>His lips twitched, but he could tell Jason caught the expression, because his glare deepened as they moved to the mats.</p><p> </p><p>“You seem like you’re in a bad mood,” Dick said, blocking Jason’s punch and twisting out of the way of his follow-up.</p><p> </p><p>“What gave it away?” Jason muttered, and then, so low Dick almost thought it was his imagination, ‘<em>dickhead’</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Dick forced down the grin.  Oh, he was beginning to see what Bruce had meant.  He hadn’t been able to reconcile the fearless child who had called Bruce Wayne stupid, to his face, with the quiet kid that skulked in the library—until now.</p><p> </p><p>So Dick pressed.</p><p> </p><p>“Afraid of needles?” he asked, careful to keep his tone teasing and casual as he dodged a kick and grabbed Jason’s ankle to pull him off balance.</p><p> </p><p>Jason’s eyes flashed.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” he snapped, his movements getting faster.  Getting sloppier.</p><p> </p><p>“Not like it matters,” Dick laughed, “What does it matter if you’re afraid of needles?  Not like you’re going to get regularly poked.”</p><p> </p><p>That was definitely anger shimmering in those blue eyes as Dick stepped past a flurry of punches, staying on defense, his attention focused more on Jason’s face than his movements.</p><p> </p><p>“Not unless you take drugs every day.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason’s expression tried to do three things at once—widen, startled, narrow in rage, and crumple, upset—and ending up spasming into a scowl, eyes shining.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck you,” he snarled, and Dick almost took a step back in shock—he half-expected Alfred to come swooping out of the shadows with a stern <em>‘language’</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, Dick tutted, “That’s rude, kiddo.  You really going to talk like that in the house we so graciously invited you into?”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t <em>ask</em> to be invited here!” Jason shouted, his voice on the edge of cracking, “I don’t <em>want</em> to be here!”  Dick dodged a punch, startled enough that he didn’t step back.  “I didn’t ask for any of this!”</p><p> </p><p>There were tears glimmering in his eyes, and Dick, focusing on Jason’s words and slowly dawning realization, had left enough of his guard open for Jason to clip his side with a kick.</p><p> </p><p>Dick immediately hunched, curling away and wheezing—training took over, attacks drilled into him with force of habit, and he straightened to block Jason’s follow-up punch and slam a strike below the ribs in one smooth motion.</p><p> </p><p>Jason instantly crumpled, gasping for breath.</p><p> </p><p>Dick took a second to return to himself—he was in the Manor, he wasn’t injured, he was sparring, he—he’d just nailed a twelve-year-old in the solar plexus.</p><p> </p><p><em>Shit</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Jason?” Dick dropped to the kid’s side, carefully easing him over until he could see Jason’s face—it was bright red, eyes wide as he choked, scrabbling against the ground as he desperately tried to claw in a breath.  Tears were trickling down his face as he stared into middle distance, his body tense.</p><p> </p><p>“Shh, Jason, it’s okay, just relax,” Dick ran an arm down his side, “Relax and try to breathe.”  Jason kept gasping.  “It’s okay, you can do it, you’re going to be okay.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason started shaking and Dick hesitated for a moment before drawing him up, until he was in Dick’s lap and leaning against his chest.  “It’s okay,” Dick soothed, rubbing a hand down Jason’s arm, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.  Just relax and breathe.”  Jason shuddered harder.  “<em>Relax</em>, Jason.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason choked in a half-breath, and abruptly went limp.  Dick almost had a heart attack, but Jason was still gasping, shivering as he twisted his head enough to bury it in Dick’s shirt.  He could feel it slowly beginning to get damp.</p><p> </p><p>“Relax and breathe,” Dick murmured, regulating his own breathing, “That’s it, Jaybird, you’re doing so well.”  Gasps had turned to hiccupping breaths, shuddering slowly dying down.  “I know it hurts, I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>Babs was going to <em>murder</em> him.</p><p> </p><p>Hiccups turned to hitched sobs—Jason burrowed further into his embrace, like he was trying to hide his face, and Dick let him, drawing him closer and slowly rocking them back and forth.  “Just keeping breathing, slow and steady,” Dick hummed.  He could feel Jason’s heartbeat pounding against skin.</p><p> </p><p>Babs was also going to lord it over him forever that she was right.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re doing great, Jaybird,” Dick said as the hitched sobs slowly died down into sniffles, breathing levelling out to quiet gasps amid shallow breaths.  He stopped rubbing circles into Jason’s shoulder and shifted until he could pick Jason up, one hand underneath his knees, “Let’s go find an ice pack for that bruise, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Jason made a quiet sound as Dick rose to his feet, his hands clenching on Dick’s shirt, but he was still hiding his face.  “Jaybird?” Jason asked finally, his voice shaky.</p><p> </p><p>Ah.  Well, Dick couldn’t exactly deny that the little spitfire intrigued him.</p><p> </p><p>“Bird nicknames run in the family,” Dick informed him as he carried Jason out of the gym—the kid was far too light, Alfred needed to feed him more.</p><p> </p><p>Jason was silent for a long moment.</p><p> </p><p>“Family?” he said finally, his voice so quiet Dick barely heard him, and something in his tone made Dick want to bundle him up in a hundred blankets and never let him leave.</p><p> </p><p>“Family,” Dick confirmed, holding the kid close.</p><p> </p><p>Dick was beginning to warm up to the idea of a little brother.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Jason's POV of the fight scene. [<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29792421/chapters/75910844">Batcellanea ch17</a>.]</p><p>The difference between Nightwing!Dick and mob!Dick is when this Dick says he's going to wrap Jason in blankets and never let him leave, he <em>means</em> it.</p><p>Dick calling Jason family <em>after</em> he hits him is not reinforcing any healthy family dynamics in Jason's mind.</p><p>(Up next: Jason discovers the Cave.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Cave</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jason discovers the Cave.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This ended up being like six pages of Jason crying, because <em>I couldn't get him to believe them</em>, the mistrustful little shit.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>They wanted him to be a part of their Family.  Which, okay, Jason wasn’t sure how much a twelve-year-old could help a mob boss, but he didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter.  He could only keep his mouth shut and tick off all the boxes on their training and ensure he didn’t fail.</p><p> </p><p>Gordon had taken over his training.  They’d moved from sparring to starting from scratch, from the basics.  She would correct his form and help him shift his weight through a punch and teach him the right stretches to increase his flexibility.</p><p> </p><p>She was also tutoring him—school began in another month, and Jason had seen her expression twist when she realized that he wasn’t at a seventh grade reading level.  He was <em>trying</em>—he picked up English quickly, and History was practically a bunch of stories, and Science was cool, but Math was giving him a raging headache.</p><p> </p><p>Gordon never got mad, though.  She never said that he was going too slow or getting too many wrong answers, so he must’ve been doing <em>something</em> right.  She even sometimes let him watch as she hacked through different servers for information on Wayne’s latest job.</p><p> </p><p>Jason wasn’t <em>stupid</em>—he knew that what Gordon could do was ten times more devastating than a knife to the gut, that she ruined lives with just a tap of her fingers, but it was bloodless.  Nonviolent.  He wished that his role was with her, but he wasn’t betting on it.</p><p> </p><p>There was really only one reason you picked up a Crime Alley kid, and it was because they knew pain.</p><p> </p><p>Knew what it tasted like.</p><p> </p><p>Knew how to deliver.</p><p> </p><p>He was going to end up an enforcer, and Jason knew it.  Every time he showed up for Barbara’s lessons in the library, he was afraid he’d be met with Dick Grayson’s beaming smile instead.</p><p> </p><p>Grayson was dangerous, and Jason had gotten a firsthand glimpse at exactly how much.  He <em>knew</em> the older boy had been holding back on him in spars, it hadn’t been difficult to figure out that much, but Jason hadn’t quite believed that there was a predator lurking behind that cheerful smile.  And then Grayson had sent him gasping to the floor with one strike—a strike that had laid him out for the rest of the afternoon, forcing an extended stay in the smiling teen’s presence as he hovered solicitously over Jason like an overbearing mother hen.</p><p> </p><p>Jason had been carried <em>everywhere</em>.  It was terrifying.  And he was not keen to repeat the experience—either the gasping, breathless pain or the attentive smothering.</p><p> </p><p>The smothering was still present—Grayson had apparently taken that afternoon as an invitation to extend his casual disregard of Jason’s personal space, so now Jason had to put up with hair ruffles and hugs from behind and a whole variety of casual touches.  The only saving grace was that Grayson’s attention span was as short as a hummingbird’s, and he was inevitably distracted before Jason felt cornered.</p><p> </p><p>Jason hadn’t been stupid enough to show any pain after that afternoon—especially not to Wayne.  He’d stared at the dark bruise covering his chest, and was grateful that Grayson hadn’t continued the fight.  Jason hadn’t even remembered to tap out, too busy with a sudden case of <em>I can’t breathe</em>.</p><p> </p><p>But now the bruise was gone, and Jason was waiting for the other shoe to drop.  He knew that Gordon’s tutoring was going slowly, but surely they were going to use him for something soon.  If they wanted a trained and educated kid, they would’ve <em>gotten</em> one.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, they’d kept Jason, which meant that they had a job in mind.  Jason hoped it was tires—he didn’t have several marketable skills, and he wasn’t keen on using any of the others.</p><p> </p><p>The tension of waiting was making it very difficult to sit still—Gordon had ended their lesson early today, she had to go back home, and Mr. Pennyworth wouldn’t be starting dinner for another hour, and Jason was fidgeting too badly to peacefully read a book.</p><p> </p><p>When he read the same line five times in a row, Jason gave up and decided to walk it off.  His chances of getting ambushed by Grayson were the same everywhere, and he needed to bleed off some of this restless energy.</p><p> </p><p>Jason peered at the paintings lining the wall—careful not to touch, because everything in Wayne Manor looked ridiculously expensive, and he already had a one-million-dollar debt to pay off, he didn’t need to add more zeros to the total—as he slowly shuffled down the hall.  Sometimes, Wayne Manor felt more like a museum than a house.</p><p> </p><p>Jason froze when he heard Wayne’s voice, low and rumbling.  It was coming from two doors down, and Jason hastily backed up a step—he didn’t want Wayne to catch him loitering around, he knew he was supposed to be studying or training or <em>something</em>—</p><p> </p><p>Wayne’s voice cut out abruptly.  That was…strange.</p><p> </p><p>Jason eyed the heavy door, creeping closer.  Nothing.  No murmurs, no whisper, not even the intangible presence of breathing.</p><p> </p><p>The door was closed.  Jason—Jason was not about to enter a room with a closed door.</p><p> </p><p>But Wayne’s voice had stopped in the middle of a sentence.  And—and Jason was the only person in the corridor, if something happened to Wayne and they found <em>him</em> here, well.</p><p> </p><p>Jason really didn’t want to imagine what they’d do to him.  His brain, unfortunately, didn’t get the memo.</p><p> </p><p>Visions of torture drifting across his mind, Jason swallowed and slowly reached out to knock against the door, his fingers stuttering on wood.</p><p> </p><p>No response.</p><p> </p><p>Jason weighed up the risks of entering someplace he shouldn’t versus leaving Wayne incapacitated.  The cost-benefit analysis was completed quickly—Jason knew how to take a beating.  He would prefer not to be killed.</p><p> </p><p>The door didn’t even creak as Jason turned the knob and pushed it forward.</p><p> </p><p>He peeked into the room, an apology on his tongue…but it was empty.  Jason poked his head in further—it looked like an office, bookshelves lining the walls and a solitary desk in front of the window, and Jason almost withdrew his head, heart pounding—</p><p> </p><p>But he was <em>sure</em> Wayne had been in this room.  There were no other doors and the windows were latched.  And no sign of the man.</p><p> </p><p>Jason swallowed, and stepped fully inside.  He closed the door behind him, but didn’t fully shut it as he took a wary step forward.  “Mr. Wayne?” he called out nervously.</p><p> </p><p>No answer.</p><p> </p><p>Jason couldn’t quite make his feet move.  “Hello?” he tried again, “Mr. Wayne?  Are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>No response.</p><p> </p><p>The room wasn’t very large, and there was no visible hiding places amidst the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the framed paintings on the walls, the leather couch along one wall, and the desk in front of the window, with two chairs in front of it, and one behind.  Jason didn’t want to go near the desk, he really didn’t, but the space between the desk and the windows was the only place he couldn’t see from where he was standing.</p><p> </p><p>“Mr. Wayne?” Jason called out again, and screwed up his courage before inching around the desk.</p><p> </p><p>Nothing.</p><p> </p><p>The chair was empty, the small space underneath the desk was empty, and there was no space large enough for someone of Wayne’s size to hide.</p><p> </p><p>Wayne <em>had</em> been here.  Jason was sure of it.  So where did he go?</p><p> </p><p>Jason made a slow circuit around the room—the bookshelves were filled with strange topics, the paintings were subtly creepy, the grandfather clock didn’t seem to be working, the—</p><p> </p><p>Footsteps.  Down the corridor.</p><p> </p><p>Jason pressed against the wall, his heart racing again—he hadn’t found Wayne, and he couldn’t be caught here, in the man’s study, they—they’d think he was a spy or something, and then Jason wouldn’t even live out the night—he had to hide, he had to find someplace they wouldn’t look, some place—</p><p> </p><p>The door of the clock seemed to be slightly out of alignment with the frame—Jason didn’t know how much space was inside the clock, but surely they wouldn’t look for him there, he could hide until they went away, and hope no one ever caught him doing something this idiotic again.</p><p> </p><p>The doorknob turned, and Jason swung the clock door open and stuffed himself inside before swinging it shut behind him.</p><p> </p><p>He took a step back—into far more space than there should’ve been inside a clock.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Dread crawled up Jason’s spine with every step down into the darkness, but he couldn’t help himself.  The same, niggling part of him that had seen a fancy car in Crime Alley and thrown reason aside had apparently <em>not learnt its lesson</em>, and Jason shivered as his fingers brushed rough stone on his way down a seemingly endless stairway.</p><p> </p><p>He was not supposed to be here.  That much was very, very obvious.  The study was one thing—the door had been unlocked, and no one had expressly <em>forbidden</em> him from going in, and if Jason had apologized very thoroughly, maybe they’d would let him off with only a few bruises.</p><p> </p><p>This pathway had been hidden inside a clock—he was <em>definitely</em> not meant to go down here, yet he couldn’t stop his feet from taking step—after step—after step.</p><p> </p><p>The darkness was letting up now, inky black broken by the distant rays of fluorescent light and Jason’s steps slowed as he reached the end of the staircase and slowly peered around the corner to see…a cave.</p><p> </p><p>A <em>massive</em> cave—the ceiling was shrouded in darkness, lights hanging down from thin metal poles and illuminating a computer array, a garage, a gym set-up five times bigger than what they had upstairs, with a whole bunch of hanging ropes and bars.  Despite his fear, Jason edged out from the stairs, eyes wide, head spinning as his gaze darted from one fascinating corner to the next.</p><p> </p><p>The place was empty, and Jason sidled past the computer set-up to drift closer to the training mats.  He might not even mind becoming an enforcer if he got to train in a place like <em>this</em>.  Everyone said that the Waynes had some sort of secret hideout somewhere, but Jason hadn’t expected it to be a gigantic cave under their manor.</p><p> </p><p>A scream echoed from deeper in the cave, and Jason froze, abruptly remembering that he was not supposed to be here.</p><p> </p><p>He should go back up the stairs and pretend he was never here.  He should leave, <em>right now</em>.  He should definitely not inch forward in the direction of the scream, heading deeper into the Cave, where the lights faltered and tunnels opened up in the stone wall.</p><p> </p><p>But someone was screaming.  Someone was <em>hurt</em>.  Jason couldn’t—he couldn’t just leave them there.</p><p> </p><p>There were several tunnels carving through the walls, and Jason hesitated in front of them—another scream echoed, coming from the one three openings down, and Jason hesitantly tiptoed over and peered around the corner.</p><p> </p><p>His skin raised in dotted bumps as a flash of ice ran down his spine.</p><p> </p><p>Cells.  One after the other, see-through glass with air holes, but there was no mistaking their intended purpose.  He needed to leave.  He needed to get away—whatever was happening down here, it was something he wanted no part of.</p><p> </p><p>The Wayne Family was the most feared throughout Gotham for good reason.  Reasons Jason did not want to get intimated with.</p><p> </p><p><em>Leave</em>, the sane part of his mind begged, <em>turn around and run</em>.</p><p> </p><p>The cells were empty.  One after the other, nothing but shadows and flat tile.  There were five on each side.  The last one on the right was open, a door slanted at an angle to the seamless glass.  Jason passed it in silence, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears and lodged somewhere in his throat.</p><p> </p><p><em>Leave.  Get out.  Pretend like you never saw this</em>.  Leave.</p><p> </p><p>The tunnel opened into a wider space after the cells.  Low lights hung over empty cots, shackles fixed to the frames.  There were a group of people gathered around a bed halfway down, gasping breaths rattling through the air.</p><p> </p><p>Some part of Jason’s mind—the part that wasn’t shrieking in terror—noted the trays of tools he was stepping past, the sharpened knives glinting on the table, the strange metal implements, gleaming and clean like anyone would believe they weren’t bloodied.</p><p> </p><p>“All this will end once you tell me the truth,” said a familiar, low voice, sounding soft.  Jason froze, rooted to the spot.  “That’s all I need.  The truth.  Then you can sleep.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Leave before he sees you, leave and forget about this, </em>leave<em>.</em></p><p> </p><p>“N-<em>no</em>—” the voice cut out in an agonized scream, and the sound jarred his bones.</p><p> </p><p>Jason instinctively flinched back.  He knocked into a tray, and stumbled, losing his balance—the tray and its contents hit the floor with a resounding clatter a second before Jason landed on his ass.</p><p> </p><p>The air in the room turned thick and choking in an instant, and Jason couldn’t breathe.</p><p> </p><p>Wayne turned around, blue eyes chips of cold ice in his face, gaze drawn unerringly to Jason.  Jason stared back, distantly aware he was trembling, his mind stuck on <em>‘oh fuck’</em>.</p><p> </p><p>This was it, he dimly noted.  He was going to die.  He was going to die, slow and painful, screaming like the person shackled to the bed.  He could’ve just kept his head down and followed the rules and lived a decent life—the Waynes took care of their own, he knew that, he should’ve just let it be <em>enough</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t going to get that opportunity again.  Even if the Waynes let him live, it wouldn’t be <em>mercy</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Wayne took a step towards him, and Jason felt a violent shudder wrack his frame—Wayne had needles in his hands, long and thin and sharp, red glistening on their tips, and all Jason could imagine was them sinking into skin, over and over and over again, slow and agonizing as he screamed.</p><p> </p><p>The part of his mind that had been shrieking at him to run was conspicuously silent.  Running wouldn’t help anything right now.  It would just make things worse.  Jason stayed where he was, sprawled on the ground, and stared up into the face of the most dangerous man in Gotham.</p><p> </p><p>“Jason?” Wayne said, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.</p><p> </p><p>Jason shivered harder—he was sucking in high, fluttering breaths as his lungs spasmed, coiled tightly like holding his breath was going to turn him invisible, was going to let Wayne forget he was there.</p><p> </p><p>Wayne’s expression flitted through several twitches too fast for him to register, and then he was calling out, that gravelly voice suddenly <em>furious</em>, “Dick!”</p><p> </p><p>No.  <em>No</em>, please no, please not Grayson, <em>no</em>—</p><p> </p><p>Jason didn’t hear the footsteps, but he did hear Grayson’s confused voice behind him, “Jason?”</p><p> </p><p>“Get him out of here,” Wayne ordered, his voice tight, his eyes narrowed and his expression locked like Jason couldn’t see the roiling emotions seething just below the surface.</p><p> </p><p>Grayson appeared in his field of view, blocking out Wayne and the cot and the other silent torturers and the leg straining against the metal cuff.  His face was scrunched up, and Jason took in a high, shaky breath—he needed to use this chance, he needed to beg and plead and apologize and hope that would be enough, <em>pray</em> that would be enough—</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t make the words come out.  He could only shake as Grayson reached out, still frozen in place, unable to even raise a hand to defend himself—not that it would help, not that <em>anything</em> would help, he couldn’t fight Grayson, he couldn’t fight the Waynes, he was just a stupid boy who hadn’t learned his lesson about getting mixed up in other people’s business, and now it would be the last thing he ever did.</p><p> </p><p>He had nothing to bargain with, nothing to trade for the swift mercy of a quick death—the only currency he had was one that Wayne refused to accept, and Jason squeezed his eyes shut as Grayson grabbed his shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>It was stupid, it wasn’t like closing his eyes was going to make it hurt any less, but Jason didn’t want to see where they were taking him, what they were going to do to him.  Nothing his imagination could come up with would be as horrific as whatever they’d planned, and Jason couldn’t help the tears as Grayson picked him up, his grip tight and overwhelming.</p><p> </p><p>“Shh,” Grayson said, swiftly walking away from the cots—Jason expected to be locked into the next one down, or thrown into the first available cell, but Grayson was leaving the tunnel entirely, forcing Jason’s face against his shoulder so he couldn’t see anything even if he opened his eyes.  “Shh, Jaybird, it’s okay.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason tried to keep silent, tried to choke down the gasps and hitched breaths, but he couldn’t stop the tears running down his face, couldn’t stop them soaking into Grayson’s shirt, couldn’t suppress the terror clawing at every part of him.  Grayson’s gentle reassurances were even worse than Wayne’s fury—Jason could handle the anger, the rage, but he couldn’t handle soothing tones with sharp slices, the mocking kindness that Grayson exuded at all times, a charming smile with a fist buried in his gut.</p><p> </p><p>Grayson kept shushing him, moving quickly—Jason saw the light around them dim as Grayson’s steps changed, almost like they were going up.  Like they were going back into the house.</p><p> </p><p>But that didn’t make any sense—there were no torture rooms in the manor, why would they be going back up, they’d just <em>left</em> the cells—unless the cave wasn’t the only secret room they had.</p><p> </p><p>Jason shuddered, tensing up further—the knives and sharp metal tools and shackles and sterile cells had been bad enough, but if they were going somewhere else, that meant those cells hadn’t been sufficient, that meant this was going to be <em>worse</em>, and Jason lost his grip on suppressing his sobs as Grayson awkwardly maneuvered them through the clock door.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m—I’m s-<em>sorry</em>,” Jason stuttered as they emerged back into the house, “P-please, I am, I didn’t—didn’t mean to—I s-swear, please—<em>please</em>—”</p><p> </p><p>“Shh, Jason, calm down,” Grayson said, and Jason’s confusion only grew when Grayson dropped down onto the couch instead of heading for the door, “Please calm down, you’re okay, no one is hurting you.”</p><p> </p><p>Of course it would be games, of course it wouldn’t be simple, of course they would dangle hope in front of Jason and laugh when he believed them—</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Please</em>,” Jason wailed—Grayson shifted his grip, drawing Jason closer, and he curled a fist into the material of Grayson’s shirt, like it wouldn’t take the older boy all of one second to pry him free.  But Grayson wasn’t prying him free <em>yet</em>, so Jason hid his face in the soft material and shuddered through the sobs, “I’m sorry—I—I didn’t—I wasn’t—please—please don’t—please—please make it quick—”</p><p> </p><p>“No one is hurting you, Jaybird,” Grayson said, one arm curling Jason against him while the other drifted through his hair—on every run, Jason waited for it to catch, for fingers to hold fast and <em>twist</em> and drag him to his knees as Jason cried.  “Shh, it’s okay, you’re safe.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason <em>wasn’t</em>, he hadn’t been safe a day in his life, not with his father, not with his mother, not on the streets, he didn’t even know what safe felt like, but he was sure it wasn’t the tautness of Grayson’s arms trapping him inside a manor owned by the mob.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please, <em>please</em>—”</p><p> </p><p>“Jaybird, calm down,” Grayson said, and Jason gave up, Grayson wasn’t listening to him, he could beg until his voice went hoarse but the older boy wouldn’t care.  Wouldn’t care until he was screaming.  He curled up as tightly as he dared, still in Grayson’s lap, and let the sobs wrack through him, waiting for the torture to start.</p><p> </p><p>They were going to drag it out.  It was a certainty now—they wouldn’t bother with the pretense if they were going to take Jason out back and put a bullet into his head, which meant that this was just a taste of what Jason was in for.  Mind games, alternating between soothing and pain, until Jason’s mind was so twisted up he didn’t know which was which.</p><p> </p><p>Jason didn’t hear the door click open, but he did hear Wayne’s deep voice, “Dick, how is he?”</p><p> </p><p>Grayson sighed as Jason untwisted to look up at Wayne, his blurry vision making it difficult to distinguish any distinct features in the figure looming over him.  “He doesn’t believe you—”</p><p> </p><p>Jason cut him off, desperate to seize his last chance, “I’m sorry!  Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t mean to, I—I wasn’t spying, I <em>swear</em>—”</p><p> </p><p>“Jason,” Wayne frowned, “I don’t—”</p><p> </p><p>“Please,” Jason begged, “Please, I—I know you’re going to kill me but please just make it quick, <em>please</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Grayson’s arms tightened around him, and Wayne’s frown deepened as he took a seat next to them—Jason scrubbed at his eyes, he needed to see Wayne’s expression, to know if there was a crack of mercy in those eyes, or if further pleading was going to make the man angrier.</p><p> </p><p>“Jason,” Wayne said slowly, his expression struggling to stay level, “I’m not going to kill you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Please,” Jason whimpered, “No games, <em>please</em>—”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not playing games,” Wayne said, his voice sharper, “I’m not going to hurt you.”  He caught the way Jason tensed, and continued, “<em>No one</em> in this house is going to hurt you.  You are Family.”</p><p> </p><p>“But—but I was—I didn’t mean to—I was down—down in the cave and—and I saw you—and I didn’t mean to, I <em>swear</em>—”</p><p> </p><p>“Jason,” Wayne laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Jason froze, “Please calm down.  I am not going to hurt you for accidentally going somewhere you shouldn’t.  I am not going to hurt you <em>period</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>That was the biggest lie Jason had ever heard, and he’d listened to his father promise to keep a roof over their heads and his mother promise she’d get up and make dinner and teachers promise they were here to help and cops promise that they would uphold the law.</p><p> </p><p>“P-please,” Jason tried again, because he just wanted one little thing, that was it, that was all, and—and everyone said Wayne had a soft spot for kids, so maybe if he begged sweetly enough, Wayne would end it quickly—</p><p> </p><p>“Jason,” Wayne said, forcing him to meet those cold blue eyes, “<em>I’m not going to hurt you</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>No budging.  Not a hint of wavering, a crack of mercy in that expression.  Jason squeezed his eyes shut and went limp, silent tears running down his splotchy cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>“Jason?” Wayne said, sounding alarmed.</p><p> </p><p>“Jaybird?” Grayson twisted until Jason was leaning against the older boy’s chest, his cheek resting against a hard sternum, “Jason, what happened?”</p><p> </p><p>“P-ple-ease,” Jason hiccupped.</p><p> </p><p>“Jaybird,” Grayson said softly, “We’re not going to hurt you, I swear.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason still remembered what it felt like, gasping on the mats like a beached fish, watching footsteps come closer in panicked terror.</p><p> </p><p>“D-don’t need to <em>l-lie</em>.  I k-know that you g-got a street kid because we-we’re not in the system.  B-but you can j-just go get <em>another</em>.”  Jason paused to take a hitched breath, swallowing past the lump in his throat.  “J-just please don’t make it <em>s-slow</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Silence.  Long and stretching—Wayne’s hand was still on his shoulder, Grayson’s arms locked around his waist and holding him in place.  Jason felt the tears slide down his cheeks, drop by drop by drop.</p><p> </p><p>“Bruce,” Grayson said softly, and abruptly, the hand on Jason’s shoulder disappeared.  The couch shifted as Wayne got up, and Jason took a ragged breath—on one hand, at least it was finally <em>starting</em>, but on the other, his stomach knotted up in trepidation for the coming pain.</p><p> </p><p>There was the sound of drawers opening, and papers shuffling—was Wayne checking to make sure he didn’t touch anything?  Was he going to accept Jason’s pleading, as long as he verified that Jason was telling the truth?</p><p> </p><p>Jason didn’t want to die, but if he was going to die anyway, he’d much rather it be quick.</p><p> </p><p>Wayne came back, the couch sinking under his weight again.  “Jason,” he said, his voice firm, “Please look at me.”</p><p> </p><p>An order, even if it was framed as a request, and Jason dragged his head up—he’d left water stains all over Grayson’s shirt, the older boy was definitely going to take that out of his hide—and made a passing attempt at wiping his eyes before he stared at Wayne.</p><p> </p><p>Wayne was holding a couple of papers in his hand, and staring solemnly back.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t decide to give you a place to stay because you were a street kid,” Wayne said slowly, “And you <em>are</em> in the system.”  He handed Jason the papers, and Jason took them gingerly, after double-checking that they were for him.</p><p> </p><p>The first piece of paper was a certificate of guardianship.  The second was a copy of a birth certificate he didn’t ever remember seeing.  The third—the third was an adoption form.</p><p> </p><p>“What—what is this?” Jason asked shakily.</p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t planning on telling you like this, Jay,” Wayne said softly—no trace of the cold steel he’d used down in the cave.  “But I’d like to make you a part of this family on paper as well.”  The adoption form was fully filled out—only Jason’s signature was missing.  He traced over <em>‘Father: Bruce Wayne’</em> with trembling fingers.  “The decision is, of course, yours to make.”</p><p> </p><p>This—this was a dream.  Or a nightmare.  Or <em>something</em>—mob bosses didn’t just decide to adopt Jason out of the blue.</p><p> </p><p>“I—I don’t understand,” Jason said, staring at the papers and gripping them tight.  He felt dizzy.  “I—I’m not—I’m not <em>special</em>, I don’t know—” he couldn’t breathe again, because clearly Wayne had the wrong impression about him—“I’m not—I can’t—I know—I’m not even the fastest at taking off tires, Mr. Wayne, I don’t know—I don’t know what you want from me, but I—I don’t think I can give it to you.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason shoved the papers back at Wayne, his vision blurry again, but the man refused to take them.</p><p> </p><p>“Jason, you are special,” he said softly, and continued when Jason shook his head, “And I’m not adopting you because I want something from you.  All I want is for you to grow up safe and happy.  I want to give you a home, kiddo, and it has nothing to do with how fast you can take off tires.”</p><p> </p><p>That—that didn’t even make any <em>sense</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Why <em>me</em>?” Jason whispered, staring down at the papers—his birth certificate, Wayne must’ve called every hospital in the city to get a copy of that.  A certificate of guardianship to show that Wayne was fostering him—<em>Bruce Wayne</em> was fostering <em>him</em>, and Jason had had no clue.  And the adoption form, meticulously filled out in a neat hand, just waiting for Jason’s signature.</p><p> </p><p>Wayne moved slowly, bringing a hand up to Jason’s face—he froze, but all Wayne did was wipe the trails of tears on his cheeks.  “Why not?” he countered.</p><p> </p><p>Fresh tears slipped down.  <em>Because you can’t</em>, Jason wanted to whisper.  <em>Because stuff like this doesn’t happen to people like me,</em> he wanted to shout.  <em>Because if this a trick, then you’re going to break me</em>, he wanted to sob.</p><p> </p><p>“Jason?” Wayne said, so soft, so warm, so gentle, and Jason flung himself forward—he tensed immediately, even his <em>real</em> father hadn’t wanted to touch him, not the brat that always got underfoot, and he waited for Wayne to shove him to the floor and—</p><p> </p><p>Wayne wasn’t shoving him.  Wayne—Wayne was <em>hugging</em> him.  Jason buried his face in the man’s shirt, but it couldn’t stop the flow of tears, the desperate, wrenching sobs as some part of Jason, locked up for <em>years</em>, finally clicked open.</p><p> </p><p>“You are <em>ours</em>, Jaybird,” Grayson hummed, draping himself on Jason’s back so he was almost squished between the two of them, “You’re family.  And we won’t hurt you.”</p><p> </p><p>It no longer sounded like a threat.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“You’re family.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Jason clung tighter, and wept.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Dick's POV of last scene. [<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29792421/chapters/77198255">Batcellanea ch34</a>.]</p><p>And thus culminates the Jason-is-adopted arc!</p><p>(Before you all start freaking out—no, that's not Jason's real birth certificate, it's one Bruce made for him because he couldn't find the real one anywhere, and if you're a mob boss, things like legalities no longer matter.)</p><p>I do have future ideas—one of the family adjusting to Jason, another with that gang and the debt some of you noticed I deliberately didn't bring up, and a final one with poor Jaybird discovering his real mother.  (And then the rest of the <strike>bat</strike>kids.)  But, like I said at the start, this story is more an anthology of ideas then a chaptered fic.</p>
        </blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29036250">Jason Todd and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Decision</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunpowder_and_pearls/pseuds/gunpowder_and_pearls">gunpowder_and_pearls</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
</div></div></div>
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